The Lonely Child
by NefarioussNess
Summary: "I don't know," Stiles whispered. He lifted his head slightly, and the Time Lord saw a stream of tears tracing down his cheeks. "You're a doctor, right? Can't you make her better? I want her to come home." He felt like his heart was going to break in half, right then and there.
1. The Sterile Hallway

He was just a mad man with a box.

"That's what I am," he smiled, watching the small boy for a reaction. The child was no more than eight or nine the first time the Doctor met him.

The boy's brown hair stuck up in the front, so the Doctor could see his forehead clearly as it crinkled with confusion.

"You don't look mad," said the boy, though he sounded unsure.

The Doctor laughed softly. "That's what makes you humans so extraordinary," he grinned, ruffling the boy's hair. "You only see what's on the surface, but once you really dig deeper, you'll see that there's so much more that the universe—or even a single person—has to offer."

The two were sitting in uncomfortable chairs in a long hallway. It was white, sterile, and made the boy uncomfortable. He squirmed slightly in his seat, and the Doctor watched him contently.

"I didn't seem to catch your name."

"Mom says I shouldn't give my name out to strangers," mumbled the little boy. He bunched his legs up, resting the soles of his shoes on the edge of his seat. "Even to a doctor."

"I'm THE Doctor," insisted the Doctor gently. "There's a world of difference between_ a_ doctor and _the_ Doctor."

The little boy stared at him, his cheeks flushing with warmth. "It's too hard to say anyway."

"Try me," said the Doctor. The little boy leaned forward, pressing his mouth against the Time Lord's ear as he whispered the incomprehensible word. Well, to anyone less mad than the Doctor.

"It's not that as uncommon as you may think!" exclaimed the Doctor. "On Gallifrey, I grew up with no less than ten with that name!"

With the mention of his home, the Doctor's heart grew heavy with the incredible sadness attached to the name. Memories of the Time War flashed through his mind, and his face grew dark.

"Doctor?"

The boy was looking up at him, a look of concern on his face.

The Doctor shook his head, and adjusted the bowtie around his neck. "Sorry, St—"

"Just say Stiles," the boy squeaked. "It's what everyone else calls me."

"Even your friends?"

"I only got the one," Stiles corrected sadly.

But the Doctor shook his head. "Make that two."

Stiles just blushed, and buried his head with his arms. He was a gangly little thing, an arrangement of limbs and boundless energy.

"How long's your Mum been in there?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't know," Stiles whispered. He lifted his head slightly, and the Time Lord saw a stream of tears tracing down his cheeks. "You're a doctor, right? Can't you make her better? I want her to come home."

He felt like his heart was going to break in half, right then and there. The Doctor was a softie when it came to children, and seeing them in pain upset him so much, especially since—

Especially since he had no power over the situation.

The Doctor reached out, and gave Stiles a reassuring rub across his shoulder blades. "It'll work out Stiles," he whispered. "Your Mum will get better in no time."

He stayed with the boy until his father came around the corner in his uniform. The Sheriff gave him a suspicious look, and quickened his pace. The Doctor stood up, patting Stiles' head as he did so.

"Who the hell are you?" the Sheriff demanded. Stiles looked at his father, alarmed by his sudden presence.

"It's OK, Dad," he said quickly. "He was just keeping me company. He's a doctor."

"THE Doctor," the Time Lord corrected, "Though I'm assuming that's not the point," he added under the Sheriff's glare.

"I've never seen you working here," the Sheriff growled, "I'm also sure that if I asked Nurse McCall she could check and see if you're registered with this hospital."

"I was just about to leave," the Doctor piped up, smiling to take the edge off of the tension.

Stiles' eyes grew wide. "Doctor—"

The mad man turned to face the young boy. This poor, lonely child was faced with a terrible, human situation. Death did not come easily to a Time Lord, but all the humans he's known… All of the friends he had made…

Death was permanent and premature with them.

"Don't worry, Stiles," said the Doctor. "I'll see you around." He twirled around the Sheriff's death glare, and swiveled his way down the hallway. He caught a quick glimpse of the Sheriff kneeling in front of his son, asking, "Who was that man? Did he hurt you?"

"No Dad, I'm fine. Can we see Mom now?"

He made his way to the empty hospital room, where he had left the blue police box. The TARDIS usually brought him somewhere with an alien crisis.

This time, it had been a human one, with mortality hanging on the line.

2003 in California, of all places! But he was glad to have met Stiles. The Doctor had sensed something unique and mysterious with him, but the idea was so subtle that anyone else could've easily missed it.

"I'll see you around," the Doctor promised as he opened the front door and stepped inside.


	2. The Empty House

He meant to come sooner, but this is what always happened whenever he time-traveled. Now ironic for a man with all of the time in the world to be so stupidly late for a funeral.

By at least eight years.

This was just like the situation with Amelia Pond—his dear, dear Amelia Pond—all over again. He prayed that Stiles didn't desperately wait for him in vain. The Doctor didn't want to be so selfish to believe that the boy—now almost a man—would want him to return so badly that he wasted away his years of youth and purity.

This is what he did to the people he loved. He always let them down.

* * *

The TARDIS whirred as it solidified at its destination. Sexy had brought him somewhere without him even bopping around with the controls. It must have been dire, for her to take control without him prompting her for a new adventure.

As he opened the door, he heard a chair clatter to the floor, and a boyish scream.

The Doctor looked out, and was surprised to find himself in a bedroom. A teenage boy's room, if he were to judge correctly. The TARDIS' door would only open halfway; it was hitting against the side of a bed.

"What the hell? Oh my God, oh my God!"

Grunting as he squeezed past the narrow entrance, the Doctor toppled onto the bed, and found himself faced with the end of a lacrosse stick.

"Oh my God!" said a voice coming from the opposite end of the stick. The Doctor rearranged himself, trying to get himself off of the bed as a pair of feet stumbled loudly across the room. A light flickered above them, dowsing the room with light.

The Doctor blinked several times, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. "Ah, I'm sorry!" he said. "Really, I don't know what's up with her lately! My blue box, I mean! Didn't mean to disturb you or anythi—"

He stopped spewing his whimsical excuses when he saw the owner of the voice rounding the corner. The teenager was still clutching the lacrosse stick like a weapon, ready to attack. He was taller, a lot thinner than he last saw him—yes, it had to be him. His hair was shorter, but it definitely had to be—

"Stiles?" he whispered, unable to believe it himself.

"Look, I really don't have the willpower to deal with anymore werewolf-magical crap at the moment," Stiles rambled, the words just tumbling out of his mouth. "Are you here to kidnap me with your, your—"—he quickly scanned the side of the TARDIS for information—"Police box? 'Cause seriously, I don't need this right now!"

"Stiles, Stiles, it's me!" The Doctor protested, holding up his hands in surrender. Stiles glared at him, but his slacked, his shoulders slouching in disbelief.

"Holy shit…" he said, taking a step back. The lacrosse stick fell to the floor with a clatter. "Holy shit, it's… you! From the hospital!"

"Judging by how much you've grown up," said the Doctor, "it's been… a while, hasn't it?"

"Eight years, give or take," Stiles muttered. "Wait a second, why do you look the same? And how did you get in here with that box?"

"The TARDIS does that," said the Time Lord, gesturing proudly at his Sexy. "Time and space—so naturally, she can materialize into a room of this size."

"You're gonna have to slow down, Doc," said Stiles, swaying on his feet. "Oh God, this isn't happeni—" His eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he knees gave way. The Doctor leapt forward, just as Stiles was collapsing. He clutched him to his chest as Stiles' body went limp.

"That doesn't happen often," he said out loud.

* * *

He waited by Stiles' bed, holding a glass of water he'd retrieved from downstairs. The house was completely empty, save for them, and it felt eerie.

Why did it feel so cold?

He heard a groan from the bed, and the Doctor saw Stiles flutter his eyes open. He had these amazingly long eyelashes.

"What?" Stiles mumbled, and then shot straight into a sitting position when he saw his strange visitor sitting at the end of the bed.

"I got you a glass of water," smiled the Doctor, lifting the object in question. "Luckily, you didn't hit your head—"

"It's been eight years."

His smile faltered. Stiles wasn't going to beat around the bush, it seemed.

"Yes," sighed the Doctor sadly, "and I'm sorry."

"Sorry, why are you sorry?" Stiles squeaked. "I get it, you were busy. Everyone's busy with their own lives. Me, my job involves helping everyone else with theirs. It's OK, whatever, you know?"

"Stiles…" the Doctor began, setting the glass down on the floor. Stiles bunched up his legs, resting his chin on one of his knees, and wrapped his arms around his legs. The Doctor brought his own legs up on the tangled mess of bedclothes and wrinkled shirts, crossing them in the process.

"Where have you been Doctor?"

"Almost everywhere, and not just Earth," said the Doctor. "But for me, it's only been about a week since I last saw you. And for you—"

"Eight years," Stiles repeated. "How is that possible?"

"My TARDIS," the Doctor explained, "is a time machine. I can go anywhere in the universe and back again in her."

"Then why did it take you so long?" Stiles blurted out.

The Doctor was quiet for a moment, unsure about how he should answer this question. It was like this all the time, when reuniting with old friends and companions. He had no control over when and where he would meet them again. He feared that they would feel abandoned by him, and eventually, in time…

They would resent him for it.

"I wish I had a proper explanation for it," he whispered sadly.

Stiles was shaking, his entire body vibrating with questions, anger, sadness… It was amazing how many emotions could run through a single body without it blowing up with the immense energy it took to process them all.

A long silence persisted. Stiles' eyes kept flickering from the Doctor's face, to the space beside him, and finally to Stiles' own knees. The Doctor noticed a shadow of a bruise on his left cheek.

"Where are your parents, Stiles?" he finally asked.

"Dad's out working the night shift," Stiles answered. "Usually, I would be intercepting the police radio. It's what me and Scott use to do, y'know?"

Things have definitely changed. Eight years was a long time, and the old Time Lord wished he'd been there sooner to… what? Stop the pain that he saw on the boy's face? It wasn't just his body that had gotten older, but also his soul.

There was such a loathsome and heavy burden on Stiles' shoulders; he could see it in his eyes. It was so large and incomprehensible, and it was vastly unfair that someone as young as he had to take it up.

It made the Doctor want to cry for him.

"And your Mum?"

Stiles stared at him, and the Doctor noticed how glassy and wide his eyes had become. "You're a doctor, right? You should be able to figure it out."

"Stiles," began the Doctor, "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's not like I—you could've done anything about it, right?" Stiles smiled weakly. The Doctor reached out, and ran his fingers through Stiles' short hair, like he'd done so many years before.

A week ago for me, he reminded himself.

"Did she… pass away in peace?"

"She died slowly."

The Doctor's heart broke for this poor, unfortunate soul. This boy was now so broken, and the Doctor had a feeling—though as terrible as it might seem—that his mother's death wasn't the only cause of his present, damaged self.

Stiles wiped his hand across his face, surprised by the tears streaming down them. The Doctor edged closer, and hesitated slightly before raising his arms and encircling them around Stiles. He drew him into a hug, holding him so tightly, fearful that he would disappear in front of his eyes.

"Tell me everything," the Doctor whispered into his ear. "I'm the Doctor; it'll be strictly confidential, if you'd like."

They stayed like that for a while. The Doctor took in and appreciated the way that Stiles drew in each shuddering breath.

He could never save everyone. With all of the time in the world, the Doctor was powerless to the decaying existence of humans. Diseases, murder, and the inevitable period of old age always managed to conquer his efforts in the end. Is that why he never tried to save Stiles' mother personally?

He could've, but…

Her death was a fixed point in time.

The last time he tried to change a fixed point he nearly went mad with such godlike powers. He nearly became like _him._ He shivered at the memory, then brought his focus back to the teenage boy in his arms.

"I'm good, thanks," said Stiles in a muffled voice. The Doctor reluctantly drew back, staring into Stiles' face.

"Oh God, I don't usually act like this," Stiles blurted down, covering his face with his hands. "Jesus, some way for this reunion, eh?"

The Doctor chuckled softly. "I was expecting a punch in the face."

"Do you still want one then?" Stiles was smiling. He then turned his attention to the TARDIS looming next to them. "I never expected a time machine to look like that. Looks,"—he frowned as his eyes scanned the blue exterior—"kinda cramped."

"Want me to give you the grand tour?"

Stiles' eyes snapped back to the Doctor's face. "Are you serious?" he said skeptically. "I mean, it barely looks like one person can fit in!"

"Trust me," said the Doctor. He clumsily jumped to his feet, the springs squeaking slightly under the weight. Stiles watched in bewilderment as the Doctor shoved open the front door—"I really should've parked her better!"—and squeezed inside. When Stiles hesitated to follow suit, the Doctor popped his head out, a huge grin on his face.

"Come on then!" he urged excitedly.

Stiles nodded his head slowly, then more fiercely, stepping up on his bed to sift his body through the narrow entrance of the beautiful blue box.

"Holy shit!" Stiles exclaimed once he was inside. "You gotta be kidding—HOLY SHIT!"


	3. The Infinity of Space

"Okaaaay, I'm freaking out here!" Stiles stammered excitedly. He leaned out of the half-open entrance, popping his head back into his bedroom. The Doctor knew what he was doing; countless companions before him had tested the theory before.

"It's bigger on the inside!"

"Of course it is!" the Doctor lightly scoffed, crossing his arms as he watched Stiles peek in and out of the TARDIS continuously. "You can easily accept a blue police box traversing across time and space, but it's the size of the _interior_ that boggles your mind?"

Humans could think so strangely at times.

After he was satisfied with his investigation, Stiles jumped back into the TARDIS, shutting the door behind him. His eyes scanned every inch of her insides, his mouth gaping all the while. His fingers twitched erratically at his sides as he licks his lips nervously, completely blown away.

The Doctor smiles, leaning casually against her control board. "All of time and space are at our fingertips," he announced. Oooh, he loved this part when bringing a friend into the TARDIS for the first time. A person's first experience at time travel was always crucial, always exciting. He didn't know where they or Sexy would bring them to.

But the TARDIS was always in control; she'll make sure to bring them somewhere special.

"But what about Time-Space Continuum?" Stiles blurted out. He was now walking around in circles, flailing his arms as he continued to talk faster and faster. "I mean, aren't there laws? What if we go somewhere, step on a moth or something, and then—well, BOOM! End of the world! What if we go back to the nineties and I accidently prevent my parents from meeting? I'm not Michael J. Fox, y'know? Scott would be so screwed without me! What if we change history and somehow make it worse? Holy shit, I don't think I could take that pressure, Doc!"

The Doctor shook his head. "Everything happens for a reason, Stiles," he says. "Most of the time we're meant to intervene with history, but sometimes,"—and here the Doctor remembers his ninth incarnation. He remembered having to deal with the Reapers that Rose Tyler had accidently unleashed when she tried to save her father—"there's a fixed point in time that we shouldn't try to alter at all. That we can't alter, no matter how much we might wish for it. But don't worry," he adds, walking over to Stiles and placing his hands on his shoulders reassuringly. "We'll know when we shouldn't mess with it."

Stiles raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "It sounds like a lot of rule-bending, Doctor. Besides," he says anxiously, looking toward the door. "Would we even get back in time? I don't want to go away for a day and return a decade behind schedule."

_Like what I unintentionally did to you_? the Doctor thought sadly. He shook away the sadness; he didn't want it to fill up the room with its miserable intent. He instead clapped his hands, spinning his body to face the controls. Stiles walked over to stand next to him, his fingers brushing over the many buttons, levers and controls within his reach.

"This is all real, right?" he whispered. "I'm not dreaming this all up, right? Maybe I'm hallucinating because my brain wants to forget all the shit that's been happening these past few weeks." He looked over at the Doctor, who'd been watching him with keen interest. "There are theories and scientific crap that says your mind doesn't create new faces in your dreams, but resurfaces the ones you've already encountered."

"Fortunately, this is all happening, Stiles," the Doctor said reassuringly, patting Stiles affectionately on the cheek. "It's very, very real."

Stiles looked at him, and in that moment the Doctor realized how much of a wide-eyed child the boy still was. The Doctor had over a millennium under his belt, and sixteen seemed like such a miniscule speck compared to the Time Lord's own vast life. But humans had so few years to truly experience the universe that they were thrust into and, in this moment, the Doctor wanted to change that.

"So," the Doctor began, gliding his fingers over the control panel. "Where would you like to go?"

Stiles licked his lips, swallowing slowly. His eyes grew wide, then he looked away, lost in thought. He then turned back to the Time Lord, shrugging his shoulders casually.

"The farthest I've ever been out of Beacon Hills was to Oregon," he admitted. "What do you suggest? I'm open for anything, to be honest."

The Doctor smiled. "I know just the place."

* * *

"How are we breathing?" Stiles gasped.

The TARDIS was hovering in the inky blackness of the Milky Way, the Earth rotating on its axis just below them. The Doctor had opened up the door, allowing Stiles to peer out of it after he'd calmed down from the whirling movement of the blue box. Every new experience caused him to panic, and then stammer a string of curse words before evolving into pure amazement of the adventure now unfolding before them.

"Simple: we're in a time machine," grinned the Doctor, leaning on the opposite of the doorway. "Of course it'd be equipped to deal with this sort of spacey-wacey sort of situation."

"Now you're just cheating out of an explanation," Stiles grumbled, but his eyes were shining with wonder. He carefully lowered himself on the edge of the entrance, placing his hands on the solid floor until he was sitting. "Make sure I don't accidently throw myself out," he said, dangling his legs out into the open space. "I'm must be high."

"Well, we are thousands upon thousands of miles above the Earth," began the Doctor, but then he saw Stiles raise an eyebrow at him, and the Doctor understood. "Ah," he said bashfully, "that's what you meant."

"Why are you back?" Stiles asked him after a while. "Why now, of all times?" The Doctor sighed, and sat down next to Stiles.

"The TARDIS brought me to you," he replied softly, watching Stiles for a reaction.

The boy frowned in confusion. "It brought you to me?"

"Most of the time, instead of bringing me to where I _want_ to go she delivers me to where I _need_ to be," the Doctor explained. "She always has a reason."

Stiles' mouth hung over, contemplating the Doctor's words. "It—she… that is… Does she know things, Doctor?" he blurted out. His hands trembled in his lap, and Stiles laced them together, trying to steady them. "Did she know about all of the crap I just went through the past couple of months, or what?"

The fading cuts and bruises on his face were a tale-tell sign of such an observation, though even the Doctor didn't have an explanation for the TARDIS being knowledgeable of such physical wounds. But Sexy somehow knew, and that's what brought them to their current predicament.

Stiles shakily stood up, nearly falling forward as his body toward the infinite space surrounding them. The Doctor gently grabbed his arm, tugging him into the interior, shutting the door closed. The TARDIS hummed around them as they continued to drift.

The Doctor faced Stiles, silently running his hands across the boy's shoulders. "I wish I had an explanation for all of this," he replied, and he leaned in, brushing his forehead against Stiles. Stiles closed his eyes, taking in deep breathes and exhaling them slowly. "Can you tell me what happened?" the Doctor asked. He tenderly placed a hand on Stiles' face, gliding it against the healing bruises. Whatever—or whoever—had caused them, the Time Lord wished that he could erase the memory of it.

_Like 'Doctor Donna'?_

Stop. He was forced to do that to her; he had to save her that time.

Why did saving lives have to cause so much pain? Shouldn't it be the opposite?

Stiles, meanwhile, was silent as he continued to breathe. "You have a time machine," he said after a long stretch of time. "So you can't laugh or say I'm going crazy from grief." He looked at the Doctor, determination plastered on his face. "Do you promise to take me seriously, Doc?"

The Doctor nodded. Just a week ago he could've easily picked the boy up in his arms. Now, they stood there, nearly the same height. In a few more years, Stiles would be the one looming over _him._

He smiled at Stiles. "Absolutely."

"OK," Stiles sighed, stepping back, effectively breaking their intimate contact apart. "It's weird and a little fu—screwed up, but I swear this stuff happened." He paused, watching for the Doctor's reaction, before continuing. "All of this weird shit began happening because I dragged Scott into the woods to find a dead body. Well, _half _of one. Kind of."


	4. The Unruly Blue Box

_Author's Note: I apologize for the huge delay with this chapter. University's a pain and a stressful time._

* * *

"Werewolves?" said the Doctor excitedly. "Werewo—of course! Brilliant! Amazing!"

Stiles just stared at him, mouth gaping in confusion. "You have a twisted view of what's 'amazing', Doctor."

The Doctor clapped his hands in triumph. Werewolves—or would it be more considerate to call them wolfmen? "They've evolved, Stiles!" he explained, speaking in a very fast manner. "Of course, the last time I've encountered one was the time I met the Queen—mind you, she wasn't very happy with me afterwards! But that was the past regeneration—she wouldn't recognize me now if we visited this instant! Oooooh, this is exciting! And it seems that they'd migrated all the way to the Americas too! Wolfmen," the Doctor babbled happily. "Wolfmen—who still respond to the full moon? Genius, brilliant, wonderful! Wolfmen!" he repeated, running his fingers through his hair.

It had been a long—but extremely informative—hour of Stiles recounting his misadventures from the past few months. They were still in the TARDIS, sitting on the raised deck with all of the switches and control beeping softly behind them.

The Doctor had been uncharacteristically quiet, listening intently, wanting to absorb every new piece of information that the boy had to offer. The Time Lord was used to exploring and living the very tales and lessons that he'd learned as a boy on Gallifrey… but that was in the past. This was different; raw and mysterious and _brilliant._

And slightly horrifying, now that his thought process had slowed down enough to incorporate it all into his head.

He'd seen an actual werewolf before, of course, but it was in an actual, wolf-like form; an animalistic, wild creature. What Stiles had described to him was evolutionary.

* * *

But what even delighted him more was the knowledge about the kanima.

"Lizard-like, with a penchant for paralysis?" the Doctor asked.

"That's one way to put it," Stiles replied, touching the back of his neck absentmindedly. "It's even more hilarious when you're watching a guy being crushed to death by your own Jeep."

The Doctor tapped his lips with his fingers, scrunching his face in concentration. "Why does that sound so—OH!"

Stiles gave him a startled look. "What?" he asked nervously.

"Homo-reptilian!" gasped the Doctor. "Of course! The kanima—why, it sounds like some sort of feral form of a Silurian!"

"Come again?" Stiles blinked in disbelief. "Silurian? Isn't that an evolutionary period of the Earth?"

"Naturally," nodded the Doctor, "I've actually visited that area once. A bit unwieldy returning to the twenty-second century—I'm waffling here, aren't I? But no!" he exclaimed happily, practically jumping as he grabbed Stiles' shoulders excitedly. "Silurians, the homo-reptilian race!"

The Doctor huffed in disappointed when Stiles gave him a blank, unknowing look. "You mentioned paralysis. The Silurians have that exact same ability, but they wield it with their tongues." The Doctor rattled on, oblivious to Stiles' face, silently freaking out. "They're civil, have an amazing society with development, charisma! But this kanima… a creature that kills murderers? Obeys a single master? Paralyzes with their venom?" The Time Lord began to pace around, twisting and twirling his body as he was about to barrel into the walls. "Intriguing, very intriguing. But you said that the kanima's no longer there?"

Stiles nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. The Doctor could've sworn that he heard the boy mutter something: _Lydia_, or something similar in pronunciation.

This sobered up the Doctor immediately. In all of his excitement for this unheard new creature, he was becoming too absorbed with the information. He mentally filed it away. Who knows? He might eventually run into the creature in the near future. Or the past; time flipped around quite a bit.

It was at this precise moment that the TARDIS shuddered, quivering loudly at its core before it exploded with power. The Time Lord was suddenly finding himself on the ceiling as the TARDIS practically flipped upside-down. This is new, the Doctor thought, watching as Stiles yelled as he grabbed onto one of the railings. His long legs dangled in midair as he tried to regain his footing.

"What the hell's happening?!" Stiles shouted.

"She's never done this before!" the Doctor yelled back as the TARDIS began to rattle and propel itself God-knows-where.

Now the ceiling was the floor, and the controls were right above him.

"Stiles," the Doctor yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. "See that lever there? Right above you—no, not that one! DO NOT touch that one, it's more emergencies only!"

"What's this then?!"

The Doctor paused before replying, "A miscarriage of a situation!" He pointed above him, falling down as his legs collapsed from the shaky movements of Sexy. "That lever there! Yes, grab it! Hopefully it will stabilize her!"

"Hopefully?!" Stiles yelled, but he did as he was told. The TARDIS stopped vibrating and jerking around, and the Doctor suddenly felt his body fly through the air as he propelled back down. He slammed into the floor, his body rebounding from the force of the fall, as the TARDIS became right side-up once more.

Stiles groaned, grabbing his shoulders. He grimaced in pain. "I don't think I broke anything," he reassured himself.

The Doctor rubbed his hands together. He looked toward the doors. "Where did she bring us THIS time?" he wondered out loud. Stiles stumbled to his feet, warily following the Time Lord as he opened the doors with a flourish.

"It's all white!" the Doctor pouted, poking his head out. Correction, it was a white, sterile hallway, with chairs lining the walls outside of little bland doors and people in lab coats flitting in and out and—

Oh.

No, Sexy! Why here? Especially with Stiles—

"Why are we at a hospital?" Stiles murmured, pushing past the Doctor. "I'm not that busted up—"

Stiles turned around to face the Doctor, his eyes wide with realization. "What year are we in, Doctor?"


	5. The White Chair

The Time Lord stared at Stiles, who was wide-eyed and had this strange look, as if the gears into his head were rapidly turning.

"I have no idea," the Doctor lied, but Stiles was already tearing down the hallway. "No, Stiles…" the Doctor muttered under his breath. He raced his fingers through his hair, groaning sadly. He closed his eyes, doing a slight twirl as he ran his hands down his face.

Right! He should stop the boy before he ended up doing what he was already planning to do. That was the proper course of actions.

"Wait!" the Doctor shouted, racing down the hall.

"Excuse me sir!" said a woman's voice. The Doctor turned his body ninety degrees in its direction. A frowning nurse in dark blue scrubs was holding a clipboard, her hands on her hips. The nametag hanging parallel to her stethoscope read _Melissa_.

"Oh, sorry," said the Doctor quickly. "Wait, what did I do wrong?"

"You're in a hospital, young man!" scolded Melissa, eyeing the Doctor with deep suspicion. "We have enough injuries on this unit without you causing more of them!"

"Very, very sorry," pleaded the Doctor, "I didn't mean to, uh—have you seen a boy come by here? Brown hair, about this height?" He lifted his palm to his forehead for emphasis.

"A boy?" the nurse frowned, creasing her brow.

"Maybe sixteen, seventeen?"

"What's his relation to you?"

"Er—"

"Look buddy," Melissa began, prodding the Doctor's chest with a finger. "Unless you have a really good explanation for why you're running around this floor—and even then you'll still be walking on thin ice—I'm going to have to call security on your ass! Your get-up's weird enough, and now you're looking for some minor? You don't even look old enough to be someone's father! It's not looking good for you pal."

The Doctor look perplexed, then quickly reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out the psychic paper, and flashed it in front of Melissa's eyes.

"I have proof!" he said, surprised by the blood pounding in his ears. "Certified proof that I'm—!"

Melissa snatched the paper away from him, inspecting it more closely. "You're _'a companion of Stiles Stilinski'_?"

The Doctor nodded his head fiercely. "Yes, exactly."

The nurse, however, looked furious. She flung the psychic paper back into his face, before marching over to one of the emergency telephones hanging off of the wall.

Sensing what she was about to do, the Doctor raced over to her. "I suddenly realized that was not the information you were looking for—"

Melissa grabbed one of his wrists, halting his quirking hands. "Are you a pedophile?" she flared, glaring at him with such intensity that the Doctor had to avert his eyes.

"No ma'am," he replied, thoroughly confused at this moment. The woman kept jumping from one premature conclusion to the next.

"I've met sleazebags like you," she hissed, "but I believe this is the first time one of you has tried to look like an innocent moron. I don't know how you got past security, but soon you'll be answering to the Sheriff! And believe me, he's going to be pissed!"

What has he done wrong? The Time Lord wanted to ask the nurse in order to quell his puzzlement, but she had worked herself up into such a rage that he was terrified of what she would do next.

He felt stupid for when realization entered his brain. _The Sheriff._ Of course! If he remembered correctly—and he prided himself in doing so—and if they were in the year he believed them to be in, then…

Yes, this looked very bad indeed.

"Nurse, I can explain—"

"Not another word out of you, creeper, until I call security."

Things were looking bleak for the Doctor, until—

"Hey, Mrs. McCall!"

Both Melissa and the Doctor turned. The Doctor's eyes scanned the small boy standing in front him. It was Stiles, though not quite the same one that had just run off on him. He was smaller and younger.

It was the 2003 version of him.

"Stiles!" exclaimed Melissa, breathing a sigh of relief. She released her grip on the Doctor in order to bend down to Stiles' height. "Why aren't you with your mom?"

Stiles shrugged. "Dad's with her. They needed 'to talk'."

Melissa nodded in understanding. She then jerked her thumb accusingly at the Doctor. "Honey, was this man bothering you earlier?"

Stiles shook his head. "Nope," he replied solemnly.

"Are you sure? If he was touching you in a way you were uncomfortable with, you can tell me. You won't get into trouble."

The young boy merely stared at her as if she were crazy. Meanwhile, the Doctor was slowly backing away.

The Time Lord knew that they were in the right year, in the correct area… but was it before or after the Doctor met the younger Stiles the first time? The boy didn't seem to recognize him, and he wasn't sure how good of an actor Stiles was at that age. He remembered Stiles telling him how much he had to lie constantly over the past few months, but how good was his poker face, and how long had he been perfecting it?

"Hey, get back here!"

The Doctor quickened his pace, now just short of running. He briefly caught a glimpse of Melissa talking into the phone. He had to find the teenage Stiles before security—or worse, the authorities with their guns—found him.

It wasn't long before the Doctor found himself treading through a familiar hallway. The uncomfortable plastic chairs were lined outside of the rooms, nearly blending in with the boring white walls and floors. It was empty, save for one figure sitting in one of the chairs.

The door Stiles was sitting outside of was familiar as well.

Stiles looked up as the Doctor approached him. "Sorry I ran off," he said quickly, clasping his hands together. His knuckles were white from the sheer force of the action. "I guess I've never learned to control my adrenaline."

Stiles looked around, and huffed out a laugh. "I can't believe this." He waved his hand around in emphasis. "We're in the past? I didn't hit my head and hallucinating all of this, am I?"

"No," the Doctor assured him. He crossed his arms. "But still, it was irresponsible to run off without a second thought."

Stiles nodded, though he still had that hazy, glazed-over quality in his eyes. "Yeah, I could cause a paradox. Nearly had a panic attack when I saw myself come out of Mom's room."

Ah yes, _her_ room. The Doctor looked over at the closed door, then back at Stiles. The boy was staring down at the floor, ignoring the door.

"They're talking in there, and I have a pretty idea what it's about," Stiles muttered. "I remember my dad saying that 'Mom and Dad have to talk in private'. I wasn't stupid; she was dying and…" Stiles sighed heavily. He looked up at the Doctor. "How much would I screw up Time and Space if I went in there right now?"

He knew that this was going to come up eventually. It was inevitable. The Doctor silently praised Stiles for his self-control.

But how long would that hold up?

"You cannot interact with your past or future selves," the Doctor carefully replied, watching the boy for a reaction. "However… Well, they wouldn't recognize you as a teenager, since technically those years haven't occurred yet…"

Just then the door opened, and Stiles practically spun around in his plastic chair, wide-eyed and on high alert. The Sheriff stepped out of the room, stony-faced. It was a forced look, one that you would use in response to grave news.

"Stiles?" he called out, looking around. He sighed wearily, making his way down the hallway.

Meanwhile, the teenage version of Stiles was staring at the door, which stood slightly ajar. He was halfway out of his seat, and judging his taunt stance he was at a halfway point in his judgement.

Stiles looked from the door to the Time Lord and back to the door. He licked his lips nervously.

"Just for two minutes," he said, shoving the door open. "Two minutes, two minutes…"

It had become a desperate mantra.


	6. The Sickly Room

The Doctor watched as the door clicked shut, and closed his eyes. They shouldn't be interfering in the past like this. But, as usual, they were. This was a personal memory, and one too painful for someone as young as Stiles to revisit.

He should've stopped him, but at the same time he had no right.

But he couldn't leave him in the lurch. The Time Lord sat down in the vacant seat next to the door, clasping his hands together. He kept an eye on the stretch of hallway that that nurse would surely travel down in a matter of time.

He didn't usually play the part of a watch guard, but it was necessary. _I'll give him five minutes,_ the Doctor told himself.

* * *

"Who's there?" a small voice asked. It was raspy, and weak with exhaustion. Stiles had closed the door behind him, refusing to tear his eyes away from the small woman lying in the bed.

It seemed like she was hooked up to every machine possible. They beeped periodically, with one of them monitoring the status of her heart.

"Sorry," he murmured, slowly walking up to her bed. "I didn't mean to—" Stiles hesitated, his thoughts trailing away as his mother looked at him. She didn't look frightened, just tired.

He was terrified to look at the clock on the wall.

_This was the day,_ he thought miserably. He felt his hands tremble at his sides. It was as if God—or whatever ultimate power existed in this fucked up universe—was punishing him for… For what?

_Because I killed her._

Stiles' mind went blank as his mother watched him curiously. His face flushed as his blood raced to his head.

"Are you the Angel of Death?"

Stiles froze, but Mrs. Stilinski merely smiled, her lips white and cracked.

"I'm sorry, I'm terrible at jokes," she said, laughing meekly. "My son would always roll his eyes at them. 'Mom, those are so lame,' he would tell me."

She looked at him, frowning when she saw the stricken look on his face. "Are you OK, sweetie?"

"I—" _Shouldn't be here. Wish you didn't die. Wanted you to live._

_Wished I was dead instead. _

His mother patted the empty seat next to her bed. "You're not lost," she said, and those words tear into Stiles' defenses, shredding through them like tissue paper. They sounded so gentle and non-accusing. He wasn't used to hearing that these days. "That door was closed, and if you were lost you would've asked a doctor to help you find your way."

_A doctor._ It was then that Stiles remembered the Time Lord waiting outside. But he wasn't ready to leave, not just yet.

His legs were refusing to move, but somehow he managed to coax them into bending at the joints. He sat down in the chair, studying every inch of his mom's pale face, and feeling guilty all the while. Her cheekbones were prominent, the skin stretched taunt across them. She'd lost a significant amount of weight within the last few months of her life, as well as most of her beautiful brown hair.

"Don't worry about me," Stiles choked out. The helpless noise coming from his throat sounded foreign and childlike. He was surprised by it. "Um, do you need me to fetch someone for you?"

"You look familiar," Mrs. Stilinski said, frowning again. Stiles stared at her, feeling the panic rising in his chest. But then she smiled, melting all of the tension in the room. Somehow, it felt a little easier to breathe.

"You look kind of like my brother when he was around your age, except he had a lot more hair, sticking out all over the place. You'd look really cute if you grew yours out a bit, hon. Not that you aren't adorable now." She coughed drily, and Stiles quickly helped her to sit up, hand pressed against her back. Speckles of blood appeared on the white sheets.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispered as his mother regained her breath. He wasn't sure if she had heard him or not.

There was a reason why he kept his head shaved. He just lied to everyone around him about the actual 'why' of it.

He kept his eyes averted from the clock hanging just across from him. It was like it was taunting him.

The mostly diminished, optimistic part of him wished that they'd arrived months earlier from this point in time, when her condition had been much more hopeful. Then, maybe—

You can't change the past, dumbass.

"You're spacing out, hon."

Stiles blinked, his mother's voice breaking into his thoughts.

Even then—or even now, this whole time travel business was screwing with his perception of reality—his mother had been hopeful about her condition.

_When are you coming home, Mom?_

_Soon, sweetie. I'm almost better._

Well, you'd have to be a moron not to realize what happened next.

* * *

It had been seven minutes.

The Doctor quickly looked down the hallway, which had become more compact with people. Maybe there was an important operation occurring, because there were a host of surgeons and nurses meeting outside one of the hospital rooms.

He snapped to high alert when he spotted that angry nurse from before. She was marching down the hall, making her way to where the Doctor sat.

Jumping to his feet, the Doctor quickly rapped his knuckles on the door. "Stiles!" he hissed nervously, seeing the nurse getting closer. He knocked again, but received no response from his temporary companion.

Oh, it was no use. He had to hide.

He raced down the hallway and quickly jumped into the nearest broom closet and closed the door behind him. He bumped noisily into a squadron of mops, and they clattered to the floor.

"Shhhhhh!" he scolded them, holding a finger up to his lips. Naturally, they didn't answer back. Mops had always been a high-and-mighty lot. Clearly, they thought the Doctor to be beneath their notice. How rude!

* * *

Stiles froze when he heard the loud knocking at the door. He whipped around in his chair, staring at it as if it was about to explode. He heard a muffled "Stiles!" from the other side before being followed by another round of knocking.

When he looked back at his mother, she had a confused look on her face. "Stiles?" she murmured, looking at him for clarification.

Shit. Not many kids had that as a nickname.

Mrs. Stilinski blinked, fixing her eyes on Stiles. "Who was that?" she asked worriedly. "How did they know his name?"

A breath of relief streamed out of Stiles' mouth. Looks like his cover wasn't blown after all.

But he couldn't tell her the truth. If he did, she might ask questions. And how would he answer those? _You died, and we were never the same?_

Luckily, there was no more knocking, but Stiles was panicking on the inside. Was the Doctor trying to warn him about something? Asking him to leave? But he couldn't go; not now.

His eyes betrayed him as they flitted towards the clock. No, no, no, no…

"Is your family here?" he asked quickly, already knowing the answer. "I could go get them for you, and…"

"Stiles." It wasn't a question.

He slumped back in his chair, feeling as though he was about to get a lecture. Even when she was close to death his mom could still wrangle a confession out of him with that piercing look of hers.

She gripped his hand with all of her strength, but her fingers were still limp and bony. She looked into his eyes, and Stiles felt his heart racing.

"You have your grandfather's eyes," she said simply. "If you catch them in the light they're like ambers."

"Was it the knocking that gave it away?" he asked. There was no point in denying it any longer.

His mother smiled weakly. "When you walked in here you looked so upset, even though you were visiting someone who should be a stranger to you. And also… a mother's instinct."

"Maybe it's all the medications messing with your mind," Stiles suggested hastily. "I could be a figment of your imagination, because…"

"I'm dying and I'm imagining how you'll look like once you've grown up?"

Stiles squeezed her hand, trying to avoid looking at that smile on her face. She looked so _tired_.

"Please don't give up," said Stiles desperately, "We need you, okay?" He felt like he was giving too much away at this point; he should be more careful.

_Stop messing with time, moron,_ he was telling himself, but he didn't care at this point.

His mother sat up a little straighter on the bed and gingerly lifted her arms toward him. Stiles hesitated—he knew he was meddling too much with the Time-Space Continuum or whatever the fuck it was called—but allowed himself to be pulled into her embrace. It was warm and comforting, and Stiles immediately surged with guilt for enjoying this. He had missed this so much. It was like holding your breath for the longest time until you finally allow a burst of oxygen to invade your lungs and make you feel _alive_ again.

After they pulled apart, Mrs. Stilinski grinned at him like she was carrying a secret. "There's a journal in the attic," she said. "If you're curious…"

"It's kind of in my nature," Stiles interrupted.

His mother nodded. "Look for it, okay?"

"Okay."

Stiles reluctantly got to his feet, pulling away from her touch. He looked back at the clock; time was running out for her.

"I'll be back," he promised. "Well, not as me, but uh, smaller me. Mini me."

She watched him as he slipped out the door.

* * *

The rest of their time at the hospital became a dreamlike blur of events. Stiles had run into a younger version of Scott's mom, who had angrily asked him what he was doing in a patient's room. That had been a difficult maneuver, but he had been able to convince her to get him—or rather, his younger self. God, this time travel stuff was weird—and his dad.

Stiles had a sinking feeling in his heart when he looked at the clock overhead. Today was the last day that he had seen his mother alive.

_Fuck!_ He closed his eyes in shame. He forgot to say, "I love you."

"I think it's about time that we left."

The Doctor had appeared at his side, his hair slightly disheveled. Stiles nodded slowly, taking one last look at the door to her room.

"We better hurry," urged the Doctor, his eyes darting from left to right. "That nurse has it in for me—she nearly caught me for a second time!"


	7. The Dusty Attic

Stiles was quiet as the Doctor fiddled with the control panel, pulling on levers and pressing buttons. He watched his companion out of the corner of his eye as the TARDIS began to shudder with movement.

When the Doctor threw him a concerned look, Stiles gave him a reassuring grin.

"The adventure's over, eh?"

The Doctor didn't know what to say. Did Stiles regret coming with him? It seemed that whenever the Time Lord interacted with the boy it always led back to painful memories. Particularly, memories of his mother…

And that's when the Doctor finally understood _her_ intent. She had brought the two of them back together for one purpose. It was crafty on her part, but when was she _never_ crafty?

But it was also cruel, to throw someone back into a painful situation like that. Was it a life lesson? It always seemed to be.

The Time Lord was old, and had lost dozens of friends on his endless journey. But with Stiles' short life, losing a single loved one must've held the same crushing weight as the Doctor losing hundreds.

The feeling was immeasurably terrible and crushing.

* * *

The TARDIS whirred and settled in place, just behind a clump of trees. Stiles was the first one to poke his head out, his eyes scanning the area. "We're on the Preserve," he informed the Doctor, stepping out the police box. Overhead, the night sky was teeming with stars. Dark trees surrounded them on all sides, closing in on them. Stiles was looking up, his pale face flush despite the chill. "Thank God that there's no full moon out."

The Doctor followed suit, and he closed the door behind him with a wistful snap of his fingers. It clicked shut.

"STILES!"

Stiles' head suddenly snapped in the direction of the voice. The Doctor watched silently as a teenager came barrelling towards them and tackled Stiles with an embrace, which nearly knocked both of them to the ground.

"Scott?" Stiles said. Surprise crossed his face as the boy's—Scott—grip on Stiles tightened, who looked confused and at a loss of words. Scott buried his face into Stiles' shoulder, and the Doctor could've sworn that a hint of claws had protruded from his fingertips.

This was the werewolf best friend, it seemed.

Stiles meanwhile, stood there, his arms pinned to sides. He looked over at the Doctor, and gave him a look that clearly said, _I have no idea what's up with this guy right now._

"Are you OK?" Scott asked as he reluctantly withdrew a minute later. He kept Stiles at arm's length, gripping Stiles' shoulders, looking as if his friend would disappear if he didn't keep his eyes locked on his.

The Doctor watched, remembering that scene in the graveyard. First Rory, and then Amy…

_Stop._

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles said, blinking in confusion. "Not that I don't mind the overwhelming concern, but what's wrong, Scott?"

Scott gave him a look of disbelief. "What day is it?" he asked suddenly.

The Doctor saw Stiles' eyes flick to him anxiously before looking back at Scott. "Uh, Tuesday?"

"It's Saturday," Scott corrected him, eyes wide. "Where have you been? Your dad's been out of his mind!"

"Wait, how could I've been gone for _four_ days?" Stiles exclaimed. "I was gone for an hour! Scratch that—I barely left the house!"

"How could you _not_ remember?!" Scott groaned. He stared into Stiles' eyes, squinting and frowning. "Were you drugged?!"

"Come on Scott," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "It'd take more than that to subdue me."

The Doctor was at a loss. Four days wasn't the worst late arrival he's ever experienced—he'd been off by a year when he tried dropping Rose off several regenerations ago. He thought he'd gotten better at returning to the correct timeline, but that was obviously a false ability.

He gave Stiles a quick wave, and lightly made his way back to the TARDIS. But it didn't matter how quietly he tried to tread, it seemed.

"Stop," said Scott sternly, turning his gaze away from Stiles for the first time. He glared at the Doctor, and his eyes glowed a haunting gold.

"I didn't mean to be the, well, third wheel of your little reunion," the Doctor said quickly, holding up his hands. He watched Scott carefully, noting the tenseness in his shoulders, and the way he still protectively clutched his friend.

"Who are you?" the werewolf growled.

"I'm the Doctor."

Scott gave him a disbelieving look. "_What_ are you?"

The Doctor frowned. "Pardon?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"Scott…" Stiles began, but Scott's eyes were fixed on the Time Lord, staring at his chest. The Doctor looked down, and nervously adjusted his bowtie.

"Right, the overly-sensitive hearing," the Doctor cheerily recalled. "It's amazing how much the lycanthrope clan has evolved over the centuries!"

"I can hear two heartbeats," Scott said, "and they're both coming from you." He reluctantly let go of Stiles, and warily walked over to the Doctor. He flicked a wrist, and full-fledged claws sprouted from his fingers. "So would it matter if I tore one of them out of your chest?"

"Jesus, Scott!" Stiles exclaimed. He jumped in between his best friend and the Time Lord, his back to the Doctor. "It's not even the full moon! What's gotten into you? Not that I don't appreciate the overprotective mode you're in right now, it's actually kind of a turn on—"

"Stiles, was it him?" Scott scowled, his eyes never leaving the Doctor.

Stiles stared at him. "Him? Uh, what? Seriously, what's going through your mind right now?"

"You disappeared, and now this guy's suddenly here with you? I don't remember ever seeing _him_ around town."

Stiles grabbed Scott's wrists, pulling them down to his sides. "Oh my God! No, it was nothing like that!"

"You said that you can't remember being gone for days—"

"I wasn't _roofied_, OK?!" Stiles cried. "I'll take a drug test, even though you won't find a trace of anything in my system—"

"If I may intercept this conversation," said the Doctor, jumping a little on the balls of his feet. He spun around Stiles, now standing next to him. "I don't want you to get a bad first impression of me—I quite like meeting new people, and it's terrible whenever a misunderstanding happens! But whatever you're thinking has happened, it's quite possibly the opposite! Well, as long as you're thinking in a negative perspective, otherwise it's exactly as you believe it to be!"

Stiles gaped at him while Scott merely glared. His eyes, however, had receded back to their original brown color. That was a good first step, at least.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor. _Just_ the Doctor."

Scott frowned. "You're not lying," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"No, he's not, really." Stiles said. "Can you stop _staring_ at him?" he added impatiently. Scott was watching the Doctor, unblinking and still vibrating with suspicion.

The TARDIS still haven't caught the boy's attention, even with his heightened senses. If he did eventually spot it the Doctor had no qualms about explaining the wonderful box to him, but Scott had this wild look about him. It was somewhat unhinged, and pulsing with raw anger. The Doctor knew all too well where that untapped energy was coming from; he'd felt it himself whenever one of his companions—his friends—had been ensnared in a life-threatening situation.

"I think for the time being," the Doctor said, "you should go home, Stiles." He raised a hand when the boy started to mouth a protest. "Don't worry, I'll come visit you."

Stiles clamped his mouth shut, his eyes wide, but he slowly nodded. Scott glared at the Time Lord, and then grabbed his friend's wrist. He began to pull Stiles away, tugging him along. Stiles rolled his eyes, and gave the Doctor one last look before allowing Scott to guide him off the Preserve.

* * *

He needed time, and having an expansive time-travelling machine gave him that leisure. The TARDIS brought the Doctor to a faraway galaxy, where he spent a month getting lost within a maze of crystallized flowers that bled blue honey. When he finally made his way out Sexy was waiting for him at the exit, her doors open and inviting.

"Are we heading back?" he asked as she whirred through time and space. She never answered back, but he knew that she was listening.

They landed next to the bleachers of an open sports field. It was nighttime, once again. The Doctor peered around; it was completely empty. He stepped out, and was immediately greeted by a pair of golden eyes.

"Scott!" exclaimed the Doctor. The boy had appeared out of nowhere, and was a foot away from the Time Lord.

"Why are you back?" Scott demanded. But there wasn't much force behind the words; he sounded a little weary and cautious. His hands were curled into fists; there were no sign of his wolf-like claws.

"Because I always meant to," replied the Doctor, and he meant it. He didn't want to leave this as a loose end.

"What did you do to him?" Scott asked. "What did it _say_ to him? Because he's become obsessed with _finding _something all week. He spent days up in his attic, going through things. He won't even tell me why."

The Doctor watched Scott carefully. The boy looked genuinely concerned for his friend, with his wide eyes and frowning brow.

"He…" The Doctor trailed off, wondering how to explain this bizarre story. He instead pointed to the TARDIS, which was blending in beautifully with the night sky.

"It would be best if I just showed you," he said. Scott looked at the police box, blinking in disbelief. "It may be a bit… odd, but—"

"You know that I'm a werewolf," Scott interrupted.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes," he replied slowly.

"Did Stiles tell you?"

"He told me a vast amount of things," said the Doctor. "I do feel slightly guilty about… _taking advantage_ of his vulnerable state to acquire new knowledge."

Next thing he knew he was being slammed up against the bleachers. Scott had grabbed fistfuls of his tweed jacket, pinning the Doctor against the cold metal.

"What did you do to him?" Scott snarled.

This boy had quite the accusatory nature! Really, if he would just let him explain…

"I was there, eight years ago," the Doctor said. "But I had never planned it. I was brought there, and I think I was meant to your friend."

The grip on his jacket loosened. Scott was still holding onto the Doctor, and he was waiting for an explanation.

"Go on."

"And you see, with my kind, we live near infinitely longer than humans, even werewolves," the Doctor continued. "I was gone eight years through Stiles' perspective, but for me it was a mere week."

Scott frowned, and the Doctor could practically see the gears in his head turning. "So what are you?" Scott finally said. "A time traveller?"

The Doctor smiled.

"You're pretty late for someone with Time on his side."

"I may have the power," the Doctor said carefully, "but I most certainly cannot control it. I try to make things go my way. I strive to paint a perfect, happy ending for those I love. But it doesn't always work out the way I want it to."

He could see it, that gleam of understanding in Scott's eyes. He released his grip on the Doctor, and stepped back.

"Show me what that is," he said, nodding toward the TARDIS. "I don't forgive you for kidnapping my best friend, but… I need to see this power. Just to make sure that it isn't a threat," he added quickly.

The Doctor nodded slowly. "Come with me."

* * *

Stiles had fallen over a box of papers when the TARDIS materialized in the attic. The Doctor stepped out, followed by a now-enlightened Scott.

Yellowing sheets and aging notebooks were strewn across the floor. Dust had collected in the corners; it looked like it had been years since somebody had properly visited the attic.

"Jesus, warn a guy when you drop by!" Stiles scowled. He began to stack the papers into a messy tower, grumbling about how his dad would come and investigate if he heard him screaming. It took a set of double-takes for Stiles to realize that it was the Time Lord.

Stiles eyes went wide. He stood up carefully, his hands slightly shaking.

"I wasn't expecting you to…" he began, arms hanging uselessly at his sides. "Um, wow. Did you miss me that much?"

"I wanted to make sure that you were alright," the Doctor said.

Stiles lowered his head, trying to hide a half-smile. "Geez, you didn't even give me enough time to start pining for you. Because that's something I've been mastering for years. Scott could tell you all abou—what are you doing here, Scott?"

Scott gave a small wave. "Hey."

"Were you _space-bonding?"_ Stiles asked jokingly. "Because you have this look that—"

Scott rolled his eyes. "You don't have to make it sound so weird. We just talked."

"You didn't give him rabies first, did you?"

"Shut up, Stiles."

The Doctor walked over to Stiles, picking up some of the papers from the floor. The entire attic had erupted into chaos—unless it had always looked like pulp-induced explosion. His eyes trailed over the text. It was perfectly boring; dates and numbers and other mumbo jumbo.

They certainly didn't hold the answers that Stiles was seeking.

"Dad doesn't come up here," Stiles explained, pulling a new box toward him. "But he'd be _pissed_ at the mess if he saw it."

Scott sat down on the floor, crossing his legs as he watched his friend with a worried look. "You looked through this place twice," he said. "It's probably not here—"

"But nothing's been touched up here!" Stiles shouted, and then quickly covered his mouth. But after a moment it was clear that nobody was running up the stairs, demanding to know what was wrong. Stiles continued more quietly, "Nobody's been up here, except for us. Dad hasn't thrown anything out; I know that."

Scott sighed, and crawled over to Stiles. He grabbed Stiles' arms, holding him in place. "Can you take a break?" he asked. "Please?" he added, a twinge of desperation in his voice.

The Doctor, meanwhile, was scanning the sloped ceiling, frowning slightly. Stiles had never gone into detail of what happened in the hospital room, but he had an idea of what it might have been. The Doctor walked over to one of the low beams, and reached up, sweeping his hand across the top.

There was nothing but dust there.

He then reached into his tweed coat's pocket, and brought out the sonic screwdriver. It may not work on wood, but it might pick up some sort of signal.

The Doctor quickly scanned the attic, waving his arm in a wide arc. Scott lifted his head, no doubt hearing the foreign device at work. He watched the Doctor carefully, frowning at his fluid movements. The screwdriver buzzed, and the Doctor brought it up close to his ear. Interesting.

"Of course," murmured the Doctor, nearly tripping over a stack of old journals in his excitement. "Brilliant! Oh, she was a clever one!"

He raced over to the eastern end of the attic, and placed his palm against the wall, patting it firmly. There was something there, he could sense it.

"Scott," he said, impatiently signalling the teen over. Scott pulled Stiles to his feet, and walked over to stand next to the Doctor. Stiles stayed where he was, frowning.

"Punch through the wood."

Scott gaped at the Time Lord. "What?"

The Doctor gestured at the wall. "I can't do it; the screwdriver doesn't work on wood!"

"Why do you want me to punch through the wall?!"

"Nobody's punching through any walls!" Stiles shouted.

The Doctor looked at Stiles, tilting his head. "Stiles," he began, "whatever it is that your mother told you, the answers are quite possibly hidden behind that wall. She was extraordinarily clever, and she knew that it would take that same level of cleverness in order for her secrets to be found."

Stiles stared at the Doctor, eyes bloodshot and ringed in shadows. _Have you actually been up here for a week?_ the Doctor wondered.

"Try to be quiet," Stiles finally said to Scott. "Just don't bring down the whole wall, OK?"

Scott nodded, and curled his hand into a fist. He lifted his arm, and drove his fist through the wall. The fading wood splintered and cracked. Bits of it flew through the air, engulfing Scott in dust.

"Oh my God," Stiles groaned. "I said to be… whatever. Doesn't matter now."

Scott reached in, groping around. The Doctor waited patiently; he _knew_ that there was something in there.

"Wait," said Scott as he withdrew his hand. He was clutching a cobwebbed-covered book, the pages yellowed and the leather cover warped from water damage and heat. He handed it to Stiles, who immediately cracked it open.

Stiles flipped through it, his eyes flitting rapidly from page to page. He frowned, and turned the covered upside down, his brow creasing with concentration.

"I've never seen these symbols before in my life," he said, handing the book to the Doctor.

"It's Gallifreyan," the Doctor said. He only needed a brief glance in order to decipher its contents. The circular patterns were as familiar and as haunting as his own skin.

"Gallifreyan?" Scott repeated. "Is that some sort of alien language?"

"To you it would be," the Doctor said.

"OK," said Stiles, jumping a little on his feet. His hands were shaking, either from a lack of sleep, food, or a combination of both. "What does it say?"

"It was written by an amateur," the Doctor replied, "someone who isn't fluent in the language. But it's amazing as well! Imagine, a human actively learning Gallifreyan!"

Stiles and Scott exchanged a look as the Doctor flipped through the pages, translating the curves and twists of the words of Gallifrey.

_"I met a man… He was quite odd to say the least… He was accompanied by a woman and claimed to have travel in a…"_ The Doctor trailed off, realization dawning on him. He looked at Stiles, taking in his features. He vaguely recalled how the boy's father looked; they barely shared any physical traits.

The Doctor flipped to the front of the book, checking for a name. There was one.

"Stiles," the Doctor asked. "What was it that you were looking for?"

"My mom said that there was a journal," Stiles answered.

"But she never said it was exactly hers, did she?" the Doctor said. He showed the two teens the name written in English on the curling page: _Julian Stilinski._ "Did your father take your mother's name by any chance?"

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, he did," he said, "And that's… Shit, that's not my grandfather's name, either. Because, uh…"

"Then who the hell is this Julian?" Scott asked.

It was coming back to the Doctor all at once. It'd been so long since he'd delved into that part of his past. They were the times before Rose, before Martha, Jack, and Donna. And especially before his beloved Ponds.

He remembered a time back in his fourth incarnation, the time when he was traveling with Sarah Jane. They'd somehow ended up in the early twentieth century, a time before the human World War. He remembered a small boy, with a keen thirst for adventure. Suffice to say, Daleks were involved in the mishap at one point, but the part about the boy was becoming clearer in his mind.

He definitely shared similar traits with Stiles…

The Doctor remembered telling the boy about Gallifrey, and at that time it was still teeming with Time Lords. No Time War had yet been fought. The Doctor remembered a name parting his lips, spilling the word into the young boy's ear.

_"It was the name of my best friend,"_ the Doctor had told him sadly.

It seems that _his_ name had been passed on. Even though he was dead, he was, in fact, still living within a carefully selected amount of syllables. And the Doctor just happened to befriend his incarnation.

Well, incarnation in a certain sense.

The Doctor glanced at Stiles, and could suddenly sense a hunger pulsating off of him. The Doctor didn't dare to think that Stiles would end up like him, but…

"Remember how I told you that your name was common on Gallifrey?" the Doctor suddenly asked. Stiles blinked, biting his lower lip as he nodded rapidly. "It may not be entirely important, but I think I should elaborate on its origin…"

The Doctor suddenly strode over to the TARDIS, snapping his fingers. Her doors opened swiftly, and the Doctor stepped inside.

"Come on, both of you!" the Doctor said, beckoning them to come in.

"What?!" they said in unison.

"Slow down, Doc," said Stiles, "Did you just forget that we were four days late the last time I went with you?"

"He's the worst kidnapper ever," Scott muttered.

"Well that's why I said for _both_ of you to come!" the Doctor said, waving Julian's journal wildly. "This matter has turned to exactly entirely important!"

Scott gave Stiles a concerned look. "If he doesn't get us home on time, I'm going to rip his throat out."

"What are you, taking intimidation lessons from Derek now?" Stiles sighed. He then turned his attention to the Doctor. "Dammit, I really wanna go now…"

"I promise that you won't be missed for long," the Time Lord pleaded. He needed to get going; the facts and data were already slipping away.

There was a reason that Stiles had inherited that name. The Doctor had to figure out _why_. 

Stiles grabbed Scott's arm, directing him toward the TARDIS. "You're coming with me, Lupin," Stiles said, grinning at his best friend. "I need a bodyguard, and apparently there are more scaly assholes like Jackson was out there."

Scott groaned. "Great," he said, "like one wasn't enough."

The Doctor stepped aside, allowing the two boys in. The doors closed shut, and very soon the TARDIS began to whir and spin out of the dusty attic.

**Fin.**


End file.
